


Наказание (punishment)

by ZarAlexander



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZarAlexander/pseuds/ZarAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Ideally set during the Cold War] The time will come when you will learn/The soldier's way of life/Boldly you'll place your foot into the stirrup/And take the gun (M. Lermontov, Cossack's Lullaby) [RuPru, Yaoi, Rape, Non-Con]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Наказание (punishment)

*****

You said:  
"Well, I've got no time for victims and I don't think it was all that bad  
And if you can't run to save yourself, well, then you deserve to be had.”  
Patrick Wolf: The Child Catcher

*****

 

Pant.  
Heave. Struggle to breathe out as your wrists curl and wriggle in flesh-cutting rings of rope.

The blow comes, and you expect it – yet, it doesn't hurt any less. 

One, two.  
One, two.

Nails dig in your skin, rhythmically, pitilessly, and the notes of Tchaikovsij's Marche Slave ironically echo in your palpably foggy head. 

One, two.  
One, two, three – the teeth sink in, biting your shoulder in a symphony of pain and pleasure, spiraling into hate and disgust as feral scratches rip your legs open. 

A slap.  
Clicking and burning like the Hell that awaits you on the other end.

You'd stare at him, you really would.  
You'd stare at him fiercely enough to set ice ablaze, defiantly, mockingly. You'd fix your blood-stained irises into cold, careless ones, and you'd snicker. You'd laugh your rebellion. You'd earn one more punch – maybe in your stomach this time.

But your eyes are covered, the blindfold tight enough to painfully tug at your hair.  
So your smirk is all has been left for you. You utter a chuckle, even if your throat is dry and scratchy – even if your voice hesitates, if only for the smallest moment.

“Unmensch.”1 you whisper.

“Что?” 2

“Unmensch.”1 you repeat, louder.

A hand forcefully takes a fistful of your locks, and you hiss.

“Unmensch! Unmensch! Unmensch!” 1

It's becoming a chant, now.

“Unmensch! Unmensch! Unmensch!”1 

You can't stop it – even if the hand tugs harder, even if it jerks your head backwards, and you fear your neck will break at any moment. 

And would it really be bad if it did?

Then, a metallic noise.  
Or, rather, the metallic noise, the one you know so well, the one that makes your heart stop for a second, in a blend of fear and shame. 

The buckle comes undone.  
You hear the belt dropping to the ground, and you can almost see it through the pitch black darkness of the blindfold, landing on the floor like a coiled snake.

Fingers let go of your hair, only to wrap around your throat.

“Un...men....sch...”1 you growl, one last time.

Then, a voice echoes, slowly slurring a lullaby.

“Сам узнаешь, будет время,  
Бранное житье”3

A voice that you hate.  
A voice that you fear.  
A voice that fills you with self-loathe. 

“Смело вденешь ногу в стремя  
И возьмешь ружье.”3

Fingers become tighter and tighter, making oxygen flee from your reach.  
Your body jerks, out of survival instinct.

You hear him giggle.  
You spit, to try and free some room for air inside of your body – and to try and be a man until the last.

You spit again, and again.  
Then silence, a silence that lasts forever.  
You hope you fucking got him – at least once.

“Баюшки-баю.”4

The voice is singing again, hoarsely.  
One movement – just one.

““Баюшки-баю.”4

A wrenching ache fills your soul, spreading from between your legs, into your stomach, into your lungs, into your mouth.

You wanna throw up, now, but you're paralyzed.  
Every thrust brings you closer to the verge, a single step shy from the edge of nothingness.

From your artificial blindness, you stare into the precipice of folly and the salvation of a blissful death.

Maybe the pain will make you faint, this time – or maybe you'll never be that lucky.

The hand finally lets go of your throat, and you cough, harshly, tasting your own vomit in the attempt to suppress a retch.

He moves harder, inside of you, faster, deeper.  
You wish you could free yourself, and slap him, punch him, kill him.

But you can't.  
So you just grit your teeth as your body comes.  
Your soul is dead, though – your soul is dead one more time.

You feel fingertips smearing your own semen all across your stomach.  
He pulls out of you. He laughs. 

Loudly. Clearly.

A rustle, then you sense his breath on your neck.

“Ты – мой.”5 he whispers, and he's not even panting.

You can feel the smile on his face.  
You can feel it piercing your flesh, rougher than the ropes tying you to the bed.

“Ты – мой.” he says, one more time “Du bist mein.”5

 

*****

“This is the age of constipation, this is the age of martyrdom  
I think you even enjoyed it, I think I even saw you come”  
Patrick Wolf: The Child Catcher

*****

 

The End

\-------

1: “Monster, ogre” - German  
2: “What?” - Russian (pron. “Shto?”)  
3: Second stanza from M. Lermontov's “Cossack Lullaby”. Translation: The time will come when you will learn/The soldier's way of life/Boldly you'll place your foot into the stirrup/And take the gun.  
4: lullaby-a-bye, nonsense sentence uttered to lull children to sleep – Russian (pron. bayushki-bayu)  
5: “You are mine.” (Russian, then German.)


End file.
